


An Unrequited Apparition

by arochilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU - Chilton dies at the end of Yakimono, Ghost!Chilton (not as friendly as Casper but not as randomly cheesy as the Woman in Black), I suppose we can call this "Willton" but it's not Willton in the way you would expect, M/M, Will has certain feelings for Chilton he hasn't exactly come to terms with yet, Will is sad Chilton is sad I'm sad you're sad everyone is sad, oh the joys of being Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/pseuds/arochilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is haunted by his actions.<br/>However, he did not expect the consequences to have a more serious repercussion. He most especially did not expect to see them in the form of a revenge-seeking visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tags, this fic starts off with a very major character death--however, it's not the last we will see or hear of Chilton for the remainder of the story.
> 
> Anyway: Alternate pathway, yes, but Post-Yakimono, pre-Su-zakana.

It was quarter past ten in the morning when Will Graham received the call.

He had just finished a warm cup of coffee on the front porch and was letting the dogs out for a morning romp when he heard his phone buzz, setting his pants pocket ablaze in vibrations. Will registered in his mind that it was Jack Crawford as he pressed “talk,” cradling the phone in between his ear and shoulder as he bent down to throw a ball for Winston.

“Will?” Jack’s voice came harshly serious over the line even just through the sound of Will’s name; his tone was even more disgruntled than usual.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Will responded, standing up straight and moving the phone so it was pressed against his other ear and he could hear Jack more clearly. He watched Winston drop the ball, panting lightly, and start digging incessantly into the grass surrounding the porch. The other dogs gallivanted around, relishing in the early morning air and the damp dew beneath their paws.

“It’s Chilton,” Jack said bluntly, voice unreadable through the ambiguous statement.

This was the first news about the psychiatrist since the initial call the previous day. Then, Jack had informed Will that the man had been shot by Miriam Lass post-arrest. Will’s chest tightened uncomfortably. The agent’s mouth went dry as Jack went on.

“He didn’t make it.”

Will forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. His brain was fuzzy and he was feeling more and more lightheaded by the second. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but he knew this wasn’t a good situation in any case. Chilton was a valuable asset to them in helping catch Hannibal, even through the means of revenge-seeking on Chilton’s part alone, and without him, Will didn’t know where they stood in the case against Hannibal Lecter.

He did, however, know how Jack felt about the man, even prior to Jack’s assumption that Chilton was the Ripper. Jack found him petty and fake, mainly a class act and a complete fool living in an entirely ego-fueled existence. Will didn’t necessarily disagree, especially having witnessed.

“There will be a small funeral service at the cemetery tomorrow,” Jack continued, forcing the reality farther into Will’s brain. “Just some of his employees and probably a few of ours. Two o’clock.”

“Okay,” Will answered in a shaky voice, trying to suppress the sickening feelings of guilt washing over him. He didn’t know what else to say, and he didn’t trust himself to speak anymore. He didn’t even have the heart to blame Jack right now. At least it seemed that since the bullet, Jack had finally accepted that Chilton wasn’t the Ripper. Will made an awkward noise in the back of his throat before clearing it and continuing, hoping Jack wouldn’t notice. “See you then,” he finished lamely. After he hung up, Will retreated inside, walking aimlessly in small circles around his living room for several minutes before collapsing in a chair, head in his hands.

An image of the man lying cold in a small blue hospital bed flashed through Will’s mind. Cheek burst open, a gaping red gash, the tender flesh around the wound burned and dead as air died in his lungs and he breathed his last unbalanced breath. Will shook his head, urging his mind to think of _something_ else, _anything_ else.

And then he remembered the forlorn, vulnerable man who had appeared on his doorstep only a day earlier, covered in dried, dark red blood and genuinely asking for help, having no other person in the world to turn to. The psychiatrist has been shaking visibly as he stepped into Will’s house, making his way to the shower at the top of the stairs. Will had called Jack immediately, almost a spur of the moment decision, not wanting to deal with having a wanted fugitive hiding out in his house. _My life is complicated enough already,_ he had thought selfishly.

Walking up to the bathroom door, intending to knock and obtain Chilton’s bloodied clothes to give to Jack for additional evidence, Will had stopped mid-knock at the sound of Chilton crying in the shower. Chilton, the egotistical, self-indulged, strong-willed therapist, whom Will would not previously have thought to be capable of even producing tears, was choking down sobs— _loudly_ —in Will’s shower, obviously thinking that the stream of water would muffle his emotions. This had thrown Will off as he realized all too severely how deeply traumatized this man was. He was so afraid for his life, so unsure of his next course of action…and Will had betrayed him.

Instantly, Will wished he hadn’t dialed Jack’s number. He racked his brain for some sort of remediation. He immediately wanted to call Jack again and lie. He considered making up a story, perhaps telling him Chilton had run away and escaped his sight. However, he knew somewhere inside him that there was nothing he could do now. What was done was done.

Suppressing the heavy remorse in his chest, Will had retreated back down the stairs, pretending like everything was fine. He had put on a show for Chilton, pretending not to feel blame coursing through his veins, already lamenting the loss of a life but never really considering that the man would end up dying as a direct result of the events that day. When Chilton had come back downstairs, it was with a broken voice and angry expression that he had pulled a gun on Will.

Will had let Chilton run. He had let him get captured, had let him take the fall.

And now he was gone.

Will felt sick.

It wasn’t that he cared personally for Chilton. He hated the man the first time he met him, he hated him when he was his psychiatrist, he hated him even after he, Will, was set free. But a twisted, tight feeling in his stomach told him that at least part of this was Will’s own fault.

Frederick Chilton’s final conscious moments, Will realized, had been lived while maintaining the realization that in a matter of a few hours, he had been betrayed by four people—three he had considered friends and one woman he didn’t even know.

As a special agent and former cop, Will was used to forcing himself to accept the least amount of responsibility for deaths, whether they were direct results of his actions or not. However, ever since Hobbes, it had been getting harder. Will meandered about his house for the rest of the day, attempting to kill time.  That is, until he ended up in the bathroom.

Chilton’s blood-stained clothes were still lying in Will’s bathroom as unwanted and unnecessary reminders. Now, Will knew, they would haunt him.

Will grabbed the shirt, suit, and tie off the side of the bathtub, inadvertently screwing his face up as the stench of caked blood of dead FBI agents met his nose. Beneath the musky smell, Will swore he could detect the fragrance of Chilton himself, all tweed, flowers, and sharp, spiced cologne. Will had originally intended to simply remove the clothes from his bathroom, perhaps throw them away, but it seemed a disgrace to Chilton’s memory to not wash and clean the outfit. He pinned this conclusion on the memory of Chilton’s always clean, sharp appearance, which had often irritated Will. He ran a hot stream of water from the faucet into the sink, dipping the striped shirt first into the warm bath he had made, scrubbing the stains vigorously with a sponge. Will didn’t know what he was doing even as he went through the motions; obviously these ruined clothes benefitted nobody, but as the blood slowly streamed into the water, coloring the clear liquid a pinkish red, he had to admit he felt better.

Once he had thoroughly washed all Chilton’s clothes and hung them up to dry, he made a quick choice. It was spur of the moment action, but definitely a better decision than the one he had made a day before. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the bathroom drawer and began to snip away at his hair. He cropped down the messy, tangled curls, taming them down to short, wavy locks. He did not want any reminder of the filthy, unkempt prisoner he had been to stare back at him every time he looked in a mirror. Shaving didn’t seem like a bad idea either. Swallowing his pride and the lump in his throat, he dressed in a salmon colored button-up that accented his newly cropped hair.

He needed to talk to his former psychiatrist. He was out of jail, and it was time to resume his therapy.

**

“Where shall we begin?” Hannibal asked, peering at Will from the opposite chair. He had obviously been surprised to see Will, but he wasted no time in asking the question.

Will was silent for several moments, concocting an idea of how to respond. He could not delve into the topic of Chilton’s framing, but discussion of the man himself would be acceptable.

“I take it you heard about Dr. Chilton?” Hannibal inquired, monitoring Will for a reaction.

Will simply nodded, the guilt washing over him again.

“Not such a shame, really,” Hannibal commented, apparently fishing for feedback from Will.

Will kept his mouth shut, not wanting to say the wrong thing. He tried to ignore the lump that had returned to his throat.

“What’s the matter, Will?” Hannibal pressed, leaning forward in his chair. “From the insight I gleaned from him, I was under the impression you refused to speak with him. Don’t tell me you grew to care for the man while under his care.”

Will sighed. “When does moral obligation mesh with caring?”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly as encouragement, apparently wanting Will to delve further and elaborate on his thoughts.

“It was my fault,” Will breathed, admitting it out loud for the first time, trying to force himself to accept the words in order to ease the guilt.

“Will—” Hannibal began, but Will held up his hand and continued on.

“You can’t try and talk me out of believing it was,” Will stated firmly. “I don’t know if you know this, but he showed up at my house. If I hadn’t sold him out to Jack, he would never have been taken to Quantico, he would never have been shot…”

“Will, consequence does not constitute blame on your part,” Hannibal attempted to reason. “What would you have done as an alternative? Would you really have wanted Frederick Chilton hiding out in your home?”

“I guess not,” Will replied. _But it would have been better than dealing with the guilt of his death_ , he thought, but didn’t speak it. “But the guilt is drowning me. I feel like I’m suspended in a waterfall—I keep falling and falling, and the guilt surrounds me and fills my senses—but I can’t ever land. And even if I do, I’ll drown.”

“You can’t blame yourself for something you obviously felt compelled to do,” Hannibal reminded him, and as much as Will wanted to receive this suggestion, he found the acceptance just out of reach. “It’s out of your hands now, Will. Frederick Chilton is dead. There is not anything you can do.”

Will nodded, but his gut kept nudging his emotions and keeping him latched onto that feeling of guilt. If it was truly and completely taken care of, why did he feel such a crippling obligation and lack of conclusion?


	2. Resentment

The next day, Will drove to the cemetery in a daze. It was as if his body was willing him to drive in the opposite direction, to evade the guilt that was still washing his body and making him feel nauseous. He attempted to ignore the shaking in his hands. He found that the best way to concentrate on the present was to keep his breathing steady and try to relax his mind. This would have been a more effective exercise, however, if he could calm himself enough to do so.

When he arrived, he was not surprised in the slightest to see only a handful of people gathered in the parking lot. He knew that Chilton wasn’t very well liked, especially by his own employees, and even less by the FBI. He didn’t know if the man had family in the area, or if Jack had been able to contact them. This provided a sad truth to the man’s life, and Will, having no close family himself, was shaken by a pang of understanding. Chilton had always struck Will as a loner, more or less making his own way in life without any form of support system. He had a large house and a nice car, and he always paraded in his expensive suits. He was a middle-aged man alone in life. No wife, no kids. Will had always assumed he was gay, but didn’t have any proof aside from the incessant obsession the man had with Will. Chilton had spent his waking days at the hospital with patients, even though Will had always thought his job was a bit of a joke, particularly regarding his lack of valid college degrees. It was obvious that Chilton hadn’t had many people he considered friends. This had been obvious the moment he appeared on Will’s doorstep instead of someone else’s.

Will forced himself not to think about that.

“Nice to see you, Will,” Jack offered, shaking Will’s hand as the profiler stepped out of his car.

Will made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, something between a “hi” and a “good morning.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He glanced around the parking lot, recognizing most among the small scattering of people there for the service. His eyes caught the soft waves of Alana Bloom’s dark hair as she tossed it over one shoulder and adjusted a colorful scarf around her neck. Catching sight of Will, she smiled slightly with her pink lips. Will raised his hand in greeting to her. They weren’t on the same terms as they had been, of course, but there was no harm in being friendly to a colleague.

Freddie Lounds was there too, camera in hand, her fiery red curls ablaze amidst the white snow that blanketed the ground. She pursed her lips in Will’s direction and refrained from speaking either a pleasant or unfriendly greeting. Will was a bit surprised that she didn’t come pester him for information, but he was thankful he wasn’t being ambushed for once.

Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller were standing a ways away from the crowd, whispering with their heads together, as per usual. Neither had ever been particularly friendly with Chilton, especially during his last moments. Thus, Will understood their detachment from the group. They were just there to pay their respects, even though they had none for the late psychiatrist.

Will recognized several of the BSHCI employees from his frequent visits to the asylum and, unfortunately, from his imprisonment. All of them stood to the side, each looking a mixture of solemnity and indifference. Will wasn’t surprised in the slightest; he had heard them talk and he knew that they resented Chilton at least, and tolerated him at best.

Several people were meandering about the cemetery for other reasons, bearing flowers and sincere expressions on treks to visit deceased loved ones. Upon seeing the gathering of funeral mourners, many averted their eyes. Will could sympathize with them; nobody likes witnessing a funeral, no matter the circumstances.

Hannibal was present as well, dressed as classy as always. Will would have been slightly annoyed by his nerve ordinarily; however, of course, the man needed to be there to keep up his appearance of innocence. Will knew that the man hadn’t intended for Chilton to die. It wasn’t part of his plan. He had merely wanted to frame him, convict him, and hopefully keep the FBI at bay. Nevertheless, with this new development, the man was stuck improvising.

Will found himself wishing almost wistfully that Hannibal felt as guilty as he did, since a lot of this current situation rested on his shoulders too. Will caught himself before the dwelled too much on these thoughts, however. Nobody would ever stumble across the Chesapeake Ripper feeling guilty.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal offered, tilting his head to the side in greeting.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” Will replied, shuffling his feet in the snow. A cold chill ran down his back and he shivered involuntarily, trying to shake it off.

“I’m glad you made it,” Hannibal continued. “Funerals are a way to let go and move on. I sincerely hope you’ll stop blaming yourself for Frederick’s death after today.” A few feet away, Jack Crawford’s face turned sour at these words. Will silently cursed this; he hadn’t wanted Jack to know that he resented what could be classified as Will’s duty to the FBI.

“We’ll see,” Will spoke quietly, doubting Hannibal’s theory greatly. His eyes drifted to a plot on the grass, where a casket was being lowered into the newly dug ground. The small group of people started walking slowly, all adopting that infamous funeral walk as they moved slowly towards it.

Will was thankful the casket was already sealed; he didn’t want to see the man’s body. He wondered if the coroners had cleaned up his face well, or if the gash in his cheek was still a mess of burned flesh and blood. Will hated himself for thinking these thoughts even as they popped into his head, and he focused his mind on emptiness so more images wouldn’t sneak in. His legs didn’t feel like his own as he walked with unsteady feet. When they reached the plot, Will again felt a sharp pull of remorse in his gut. He shuddered once more.

Will had never liked funerals. It was one thing to have a last chance to say goodbye, but the loss of a life was more than just that.

The service was short. Nobody felt like talking, and nobody had anything nice to say out loud. Even Zeller couldn’t bring himself to make a mood-lightening joke. Of course, nobody said anything rude either. That would have been even worse.

Will felt the urge to talk, to give some final words of comfort in defense of the dead man, but he tensed up, heart pounding. He couldn’t figure out what to say, but he knew he should. Perhaps that would have given him the solace he was seeking.

However, he couldn’t find the words, and as the service ended, he realized he had remained silent for the entirety of it, without even a well-wish to the psychiatrist’s memory.

Chilton was laid to rest, but Will still felt like the man was with him, cursing his name from the sky. Will hadn’t felt this way since Hobbes. It was all he could do to pray that Chilton wouldn’t show up in his nightmares the way Hobbes had.

Will spoke his goodbyes to the gathered crowd and stepped back into his car. All that mattered right now was getting as far away from this as possible. Although Will wasn’t sure that this would solve any problems, he determined that it might at least make him feel better. He felt worse than he had before the service, gritting his teeth hard as he drove home quickly. He attributed this gross feeling to his lack of words during the service.

When he arrived back home, Will sidestepped the dogs gathering around his feet and walked up the stairs two steps at a time. He intended to take a shower and attempt to shake his thoughts. With any luck, another FBI case would come along soon to take his mind off this. Eventually, he hoped, this feeling would go away.

That’s what he told himself, but he didn’t believe it. Not for a second.

When Will stepped into his bathroom, there was blood strewn across the floor. He didn’t think he had made that much of a mess while cleaning Chilton’s clothes, and he was initially and immediately confused.

He stared at the ground in misunderstanding. The blood wasn’t dried yet; it was spattered as if someone had been murdered. But no, that couldn’t be possible. Will rested his forehead in his hands, trying to purify his head and think clearly. He must have simply made a mess during cleaning. Perhaps when he had moved the suit to dry, some wet blood had spilled from the damp clothes and Will just hadn’t realized at the time. Yes, that was it. It had to be. Right?

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something red glinting in his shower.

Written in what appeared to be blood across the back of his shower, gleaming in the midday sun from the window and dripping down slightly in an ominous manner, was a single phrase.

_You could have saved me._


End file.
